Harry Potter Crossovers
by Laqualassiel
Summary: A collection of all my crossover ideas for Harry Potter. Right now they're annoying plot bunnies that won't leave me alone, so I'm sticking them here in the hopes they'll pipe down.
1. HP-LOTR (Hâriell 1)

**Alright amici, I'm starting this collection because I've got way too many HP crossover ideas floating around my brain and no _time_ to actually properly write them down. So I'll post bits and pieces here so you can enjoy them and so I can hopefully get them to stop distracting me from what I'm _supposed_ to be working on. Which may or may not backfire on me, but a girl can hope.**

 **This is Harry Potter crossed with Lord of the Rings. No pairings decided yet, since it is just an idea and I've only half a clue where I want this to go.**

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This is one of the best dreams Harry has ever had.

Everything is so _pretty_. The trees and the waterfalls and the flowers… Aunt Petunia could only wish to have a garden half as pretty as this. And the house! Though, with how big it is Harry isn't sure it can be called a _house_. But everything is so graceful, sweeping lines and curves and little leaves carved into everything that makes it seem like they brought the trees outside into the inside.

The place is completely empty, so Harry is free to explore. She does so eagerly, switching between awe at her surroundings and glee at being able to wander wherever she wants. There's no one to tell her off, no one to sneer at her presence and lock her in her cupboard-

" _Mae govannen, tithen pen._ "

Harry squeaks, spinning around so fast she stumbles against the wall. Hands reach out to steady her, large and strong and Harry flinches back as Uncle Vernon flashes before her eyes. Already unbalanced, Harry trips and falls, landing hard on her rear.

She ignores the dull ache, glancing up into grey eyes that do _not_ belong to Uncle Vernon. No, it's a tall, dark haired teen and Harry stares. He's dressed like a character from the fantasy books she read while hiding in the school library, the only place Dudley avoids like the plague and safe from Harry Hunting. The boy is wearing a grey shirt under a dark red tunic, long enough that Harry can only make out dark boots, and a belt around his waist.

The boy says something. The words sound like music to her ears, and Harry cannot understand it at all. But it brings her attention back to the fact that he's _there_ , and Harry's _not supposed to be seen_. She scrambles to her feet, hunching in on herself. "I'm sorry! I didn't know you were here and I can leave! I didn't _mean to_ -"

She's not looking at the boy, which is _stupid stupid stupid_ , so she doesn't see the boy reach out. She feels his hand come down on her head though, and Harry flinches. But the boy simply rests his hand on her head. It's… comforting? "It is fine, little one." He says, and at the lack of anger in his voice Harry risks a look up at his face. "I am at fault for startling you. My apologies."

Now that they are closer, Harry realizes that the boy is tall. _Really_ tall. She only comes up to his waist! But that gives her the perfect view of the object belted to the boy's waist.

"Is that a sword?" Harry blurts out, unable to help herself. She flushes, because _duh_ , it's a sword. The shape is pretty obvious and the boy's dressed like a prince so _of course_ he has a sword! She ducks her head, waiting for him to yell at her for asking stupid questions.

There are no sneering words though, but a quiet sound and takes Harry a second to realize that the boy is _laughing_. It's not even mocking, but a soft, warm chuckle that has Harry staring at the boy even as he smiles at her and crouches so he's closer to her height. "It is," he says, and his voice is gentler than Harry has ever heard directed at her. "Do you want to see it?"

Her eyes widen. "Can I?" She asks, not daring to hope. The handle - _the hilt_ , she remembers from her books - looks pretty, which means the sword has to be really nice and no one would ever let her near something so valuable. Not when everyone thinks Harry is a troublemaker and worry that she might steal or break it. It doesn't matter that Harry would never do such a thing. Dudley has, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always blame it on Harry.

But the boy unbuckles the weapon from his hip, sitting down in front of Harry so he can better hold it and Harry is reminded that this is a _dream_. The Dursleys aren't here. They can't tell tales or drive away anyone who might be her friend.

The sword is plain. No gold decoration or gems embedded in the hilt like in the stories. Simple steel and plain black leather wrapped around the grip. Somehow, the simplicity makes it much more brilliant. Harry runs her fingers down the cold metal.

"Here." The boy says, slowly and gently taking her hand and guiding it until her fingers are wrapped around the hilt. Harry gapes as he helps her hold the sword, scooting behind her so he can easier reach around her, his hands secure around hers so she doesn't drop the long blade. It's a good thing, because the sword is heavier than Harry expects, and even with him helping it wobbles in her hands.

Harry manages to hold it for maybe half a minute before her arms tire, and she lets the boy help her lower it to the floor with a slight _ting_ of metal on stone. He easily picks it up and sheathes it in a single smooth motion despite remaining seated and Harry wants to be able to do that someday.

Then he inclines his head, one hand on his chest, and Harry realizes that he's _bowing_ to her. Sort of. "I am Estel, son of Gilraen and Ward of Lord Elrond." He says.

"I'm Harry Potter." Harry replies. She curtsies, though it's clumsy and she's wearing Dudley's old shorts and t-shirt instead of a gown. She tries to think of her parents' names. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never mentioned them, but Harry thinks she saw them written down on her school paperwork once… Ah! "Daughter of Lily and James Potter, Ward of Petunia and Vernon Dursley. Are you a prince?" He doesn't have a last name, and if he's being raised by a _lord_ , he has to be noble according to her books.

Estel smiles. "I am not, Lady Hariell. Lord Elrond was generous enough to take my mother and I in after the death of my father."

Oh. "Are you a knight then?" She asks. "And I'm not a Lady!" Aunt Petunia always rants about how Harry's dad was a good-for-nothing drunk and her mum a simpering idiot for marrying him.

"I have not yet earned such an honor." Estel tells her. "I have only seen sixteen summers, and am yet to be considered a full warrior." Harry blinked, face screwing up in concentration as she puzzles out his words. Estel talked weird.

"I'm six." She replies, proud and not bothering to hide it from her new friend. She's old enough to go to school, which means she's a big kid now! "I started school in September."

"You are to be a scholar then?" Estel asks, interested and Harry is giddy at the attention. "Or are you studying the noble art of healing?"

Harry hasn't thought about what she wants to be when she grows up. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon always say she'll grow up to be as useless as her parents. No one's ever offered another possibility and Harry finds herself itching to prove her aunt and uncle wrong. But she's stumped for an answer to Estel's question. Sure, being a doctor or whatever a scholar is - a historian? - would stick it to the Dursleys, especially because Harry knows Dudley will _never_ manage anything like that with his stupidity. But Harry doesn't know for sure if that's what she wants to do. "I don't know." Harry admits with a pout. "We're learning our letters and numbers, and some history and geography and science. I like reading though." She's good at it too. The school librarian is the only adult at school that likes her, and she's always giving Harry new books to read since Harry finishes them so fast. Ms. Eyre even helps her when she stumbles across something she doesn't understand, and even taught Harry to look up words in the dictionary when she's too busy to help.

"Shall I show you the library then?" Estel asks, and Harry lights up. She hasn't found the library yet. Her expression must be answer enough, because Estel chuckles and rises to his feet, buckling his sword to his belt again. He holds out a hand, and Harry hesitates. He doesn't withdraw it though, so she grabs hold and stares in awe when Estel gives her hand a gentle squeeze. "This way, Lady Hariell."

Unfortunately, halfway down the hall there is a sharp rapping sound and Harry has a moment of panic before she jerks herself awake in time to hear Aunt Petunia screeching at her to wake up.

Harry feels a swell of disappointment. It was a nice dream. Maybe if she's lucky she'll have it again?

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 **As always, please review on your way out. I don't know how popular this will be, but if demand is high enough I'll move it to my active WIPs once Deep Blue Sea is finished.**


	2. HP-LOTR (Hâriell 2)

**Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter crossover. Continuation of chapter 1.**

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Harry dreams of Estel a lot after that. Not every night, but often enough Harry almost thinks it might be real before she shakes that silly idea out of her head. Dreams aren't real. They _are_ amazing though, and before Harry realizes it, she looks forward to retreating to her cupboard and sleeping.

He shows her the library during in Harry's second dream. Harry gasps at the ceiling high bookshelves and the beautiful leather-bound books. Estel helps her take one down so she can look at it better, and she traces the golden symbols on the front cover, eyes wide with wonder. She's never seen books so pretty before, and Estel is letting her touch one! Maybe he'll let her read… one?

Staring at the first page, at black ink on thick paper, Harry scrunches her face in confusion.

She can't read it.

Harry glances up at Estel, who guesses her confusion easily. "It is written in Sindarin." He explains, sitting beside her like he did last time. Estel doesn't seem concerned about his clothes - white shirt and a silver-grey tunic this time, with silver stitching around his collar that is prettier than anything Aunt Petunia will ever manage on her embroidery hoop - getting dirty. Then Harry feels stupid. She's dreaming, so neither of them will ever have dirty clothes. "Elven-tongue."

Eh?! There are actual elves? "Like Santa?" Harry didn't think Santa was real. Dudley does, but Harry figured out last year that it was just Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon buying more toys for Dudley.

But if Estel lives with _elves_ , does that mean she's wrong and Santa is real? Does Estel know Santa?

Why does Estel look confused?

"I am not familiar with that name." He says, and Harry's mouth falls open in shock. _He doesn't know who_ Santa _is?_

Her unreadable book is forgotten as Harry rambles on about Santa and Christmas. Estel doesn't know about Christmas either, or New Years or Easter or Halloween. Harry is outraged - what kind of dream doesn't have _Christmas?_

Estel is curious about the holidays at least, so Harry tells him all about them. At least, from what she's heard from Dudley and her classmates. She's not allowed to celebrate with Dursleys even if they don't lock her in her cupboard on those days and she gets to eat a bit more than usual.

Some of his questions Harry doesn't know the answer to. She doesn't know why they celebrate Halloween, or why Santa is part of Christmas. But now she's curious, so Harry will have to ask Ms. Eyre or see if she can find a book on it if Ms. Eyre is busy.

She looks back down at the book in her hands, trying to squash the disappointment she feels at not being able to read it. It isn't like the book actually has anything in it. Harry remembers Ms. Eyre telling her that dreams are a mix of memories and imagination, and Harry doesn't think she can create a whole book from her imagination. Still, it would be cool to be able to read the fancy letters even if they are nonsense.

Estel hums and leans forward. "This book is about the first elves who came to Middle Earth. I can teach you to read it, if you want."

"Really?" Harry asks. Estel nods and Harry grins so wide that her face hurts. This would be brilliant!

It's harder than Harry thinks it will be. The symbols look a lot like each other, and in Harry's wobbly handwriting they blur together in a mess of lines and curves and dots. Speaking Sindarin is no easier. The words flow in a different way than Harry is used to, and her tongue always seems too clumsy to pronounce the syllables.

Estel always says how proud he is though, so maybe Harry is doing better than she thinks?

Despite how hard it is, Harry is having fun. Ms. Eyre even lets Harry practice during recess, giving her sheets of blank paper and crayons to use. She feels guilty at the waste - it all ends in the rubbish bin by the time Harry has to go back to class. Harry feels a bit better when Ms. Eyre makes her promise to write something for her after Harry can write legle- ligeb- _legibly_.

It takes almost the rest of term, but a week before school lets out for winter holidays Harry carefully uses a blue colored pencil to write down one of the songs Estel taught her. Two spelling mistakes and one time where Harry forgets an entire sentence later, she proudly presents it to Ms. Eyre. The librarian pins it to the corkboard behind her computer and Harry _beams_. That night she manages to do the same for Estel on her third try and floats with happiness for days. Even Aunt Petunia winging a frying pan at her doesn't ruin her mood.

It doesn't last.

Estel finds her outside the library. She's sitting against the wall, legs pulled up to her chest and hiding her face in her arms. She hears his boots on the stone floor, sees him pause for a moment in the corner of her vision before there's a rustle and green cloth touches the floor next to her.

" _Man prestach, Hâriell?_ " Harry loves that about her friend - Estel cares enough to ask why she is upset. He _listens_ to her too, no matter how much she rambles. She's getting better at it, as she realizes Estel is always willing to listen Harry realizes she doesn't have to tell him everything at once. She can space it out, because he'll still be there when she wants to talk again.

" _In istrim mennaner siniath vín ist_." Her pronunciation is as patch work as her sentence, but she doesn't want to speak English right now.

Though she thinks she may have to. Estel is silent for a moment, trying to piece together her mangled vocabulary. " _Trenerithach nín_?"

Everything comes spilling out, Harry raising her head so her already terrible Sindarin isn't made worse. Harry doesn't know how much Estel understands, but she thinks it's most of it. Estel is smart. She tells him about the report her school sends home at the end of term so parents can see their children's marks. Harry remembers being so _happy_ with her marks - not perfect, but still high. It was _proof_ she isn't useless, and surely her aunt and uncle would realize that too? They'd be pleased, Harry thought. Perhaps they'd be proud?

But… they weren't. Aunt Petunia turned a sickly white and Uncle Vernon's face was so red Harry thought he would explode. Uncle Vernon yelled at her for cheating, for stealing Dudley's marks. Dudley, who _barely_ scraped together high enough marks to pass. Harry was so shocked she didn't react in time to dodge Uncle Vernon's hand as he grabbed her by her hair and locked her in her cupboard.

Term ended for winter holidays, so Harry doesn't have to be at school for two weeks. Harry wonders if she'll be allowed outside her cupboard long enough to bathe.

Estel reaches for Harry, slow enough Harry can move away if she wants. She tenses, but this is _Estel_. He's never hurt her. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her up into his lap. It's when his arms gently tighten around her that Harry realizes Estel is hugging her.

Harry _bawls_ , burying her face into Estel's tunic and sobbing.

She doesn't understand. Why do Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon _hate_ her? Harry doesn't know what she's doing wrong and it _hurts_.

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Sindarin translations:

 _Mae govannen, tithen pen_ \- Well met, little one

 _Man prestach, Hâriell?_ \- What troubles you, Hâriell?

 _In istrim mennaner siniath vín ist_ \- Lit. "The teachers sent news of our knowledge" (Harry trying to say the teachers sent school reports home)

 _Trenerithach nín?_ \- Will you tell me?

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 **I am by no means an expert in Sindarin, so please forgive any grammar or vocab mistakes. After two hours researching grammar and looking through a Sindarin dictionary it all kinda blurred together.**

 **As always, please review!**


	3. HP-GOT (Lyalla 1)

**New idea. Just so y'all know, I've never seen Game of Thrones, so my knowledge comes from a combination of fanfic and the wikis. So if I've got something wrong here, please be gentle.**

 **This is F!Harry reincarnated as Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister's eldest child. Pairings still undecided, since I've got no clue where this is going to go.**

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Robert Baratheon strode through the halls, heedless of the water dripping from his sodden clothing. Grand Maester Pycelle had sent a raven to the hunting party announcing the queen had gone into labor that morning, and Robert immediately turned to race back to the Red Keep despite the fierce storm that caught him halfway.

He had no love for the Lannister chosen to be his wife. But he'd needed her father's armies in the wake of the war to ensure the damned Martells and Tyrells didn't get any _ideas_. Robert would never love any woman than Lyanna. She should have been his wife, his beloved queen. Not the blonde haired, poison eyed harpy.

But he was a father now. The Grand Maester had been waiting for him as he entered, to congratulate him on the birth of a healthy babe, a healthy daughter.

Nervous excitement quickened Robert's footsteps until he nearly jogged down the halls towards the nursery. Cersei wasn't there anymore, returned to her chambers to rest and recover and leaving the newborn in the care of the wet nurse.

No skin off his nose. Robert didn't want to deal with Cersei at this late hour.

Ser Barristan nodded to him, standing guard by the door to the nursery. The old knight had fought for the Targaryens, but the man was the best sword the Kingsguard had. Robert could overlook the man's previous loyalties so long as he protected Robert's child just as fiercely.

Normally Robert would throw the door open, announce his presence to all within. Now, he stepped as quietly as he could. He didn't want to startle the babe.

The wet nurse woke despite his care, rising from the bed in the center of the room. The bassinet sat closer to the roaring fireplace, nearer to the window shuttered against the storm still roaring beyond.

Robert waved the woman off. He wanted a moment alone. The woman slipped through the still open door, and Robert padded over to the bassinet.

The babe was _tiny_. Small enough to fit in one of his hands. He leaned down, picking her up as gentle as possible. His daughter didn't stir from her slumber, and Robert tucked her into the crook of his arm as his mother Cassana once showed him after Renly's birth. His little girl already had a head of dark hair, the locks baby-soft under his calloused fingers. It would fall out in the coming weeks Robert knew, leaving her bald until her actual could come back in.

Would it come back as dark as his? Or would it be lighter, closer to Cersei's? Perhaps it was selfish, but Robert hoped his daughter would look like him.

His daughter. He was a _father_.

Robert never thought he could love anyone as much as he loved the little bundle in his arms. Fear struck Robert, wondering if the babe would survive the coming months. Would she live long enough to call him father? Would he see her grow and learn and become a wife and mother?

Robert quashed those thoughts, shoving them to the back of his mind until he could work through them in the sparring court. She was _his_ daughter. A Baratheon, a daughter of the storm. She _would_ survive.

"You'll be a fierce one," Robert murmured. He smiled, a silly little thing. "Your grandmother always said I'd have children as hard headed as I was. Wild as the Stormlands themselves." Gods knew his mother was never wrong. His little one needed a name, a strong one like his little girl would no doubt be.

There was only one he could think of.

"Lyalla. Lyalla Baratheon, first of her name."

* * *

"Princess Lyalla Baratheon!"

At her Septa's shriek, Lyalla bolted down the hallway. She didn't think the Septa would be coming to her rooms so soon!

Full grown, the Septa would normally be able to outrun Lyalla any day. But the Septa was wearing a long habit with full skirts, and thought running full tilt was terribly improper. Lyalla on the other hand had managed to dress herself in a pair of breeches and a simple shirt and tunic and had no problem at all sprinting through the Red Keep.

Likely the reason for the scandal in her Septa's expression. Boy's clothes were not proper for a princess to wear after all. Especially because Lyalla made these herself, the hems messy and crooked from a four year old's clumsy work.

Lyalla was proud of her work. She made them without any help at all, and the hems were sturdy! They wouldn't come apart unless someone deliberately tore them! Sure the clothes weren't fitted, but none of the Keep's seamstresses would make her anything but dresses! Desperate situations called for desperate measures and this was something Lyalla could take into her own hands!

It was seven hours into the morning, which meant her father would be talking with Lord Arryn in the Tower of the Hand. She didn't have lessons until nine, so Lyalla didn't know why the Septa had such a burr up her skirts.

Now, how to get there without Ser Barristan or Uncle Jaime intercepting her?

Oh! Lyalla grinned and veered left at the next available hallway. The Red Keep had just as many secret staircases as Hogwarts. Lyalla had maybe been a not so good little girl and snuck around at night finding all of them.

Lyalla didn't like most of the memories stuck in her head. Harry Potter's life hadn't been a happy one. No parents, and an aunt and uncle that hated her for something she couldn't control. And when Harry finally found friends, she'd died to save them. Which, okay, Lyalla could understand. Harry _loved_ her friends, almost as much as Lyalla loved her father and her little brother Joffrey, no matter how much of a _brat_ he was.

If dying meant she could protect them, Lyalla would in a heartbeat.

She didn't just have Harry's memories though. No, Lyalla had _magic_. Which was cool, it _was_ , but… it was also lonely. She couldn't tell anyone. Not when everyone believed magic was heresy and the Faith killed people for having it.

Lyalla didn't believe that it was heresy. If Harry's life the main religion had killed people with magic too, because the church thought it was a sign of the Devil. They'd been _wrong_ , which meant that the Faith could be wrong too. Lyalla had to make sure none of them saw her magic, because she kind of wanted to make it more than Harry's seven and ten years.

More than that though… the Targaryens were said to have had magic. It's how they controlled their dragons, and when the dragons died so did magic. But Father _hated_ the Targaryens. The Mad King killed Uncle Ned's brother and father, because Prince Rhaegar had kidnapped Father's betrothed Lyanna and wouldn't let her go.

Father loved Lyanna. He looked like Lyalla remembered Harry's parents did, when they looked at each other. Looked like Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Bill and Fleur and Remus and Tonks.

Lyalla missed them. They weren't hers, but they were Harry's and Lyalla remembered the deep friendship and sometimes the longing in her chest hurt so bad Lyalla thought she would cry. She wanted friendships like that. People who would walk through fire for her, who she could trust unconditionally.

She didn't want her father to hate her.

The door to the Tower of the Hand was _heavy_. Lyalla grit her teeth and pulled, until the door opened the scant inches she needed to wiggle through. Then she dashed up the stairs on hands and feet, because she was _four_ and there was nobody around to judge.

Gold armor at the top of the stairs, and Lyalla kept low, trying to control her gasps into something quieter. Gods there were a lot of stairs!

"Up to mischief?" A voice drawled, and Lyalla looked up into green eyes bright with amusement.

"Uncle Jaime!" She grinned, holding her arms out. Uncle Jaime laughed, sweeping her into her arms and settling her on his hip despite the heavy armor. "I wanted to see Father, but the Septa came earlier than I thought."

"She won't be here to box my ear will she?" Uncle Jaime asked, arching a brow. Lyalla was envious. _She_ couldn't do that. "Give me bandits any day."

Lyalla giggled. "She's not _that_ scary."

Jaime gave her a solemn look. "Then you are much braver than I, Princess." Lyalla giggled some more and Jaime cracked a grin at her. He turned and knocked on the door to the Hand's rooms.

"Enter!" Lyalla perked up. That was her father's voice!

Jaime opened the door with a flourish. "A visitor, Your Majesty."

The two men in the room looked at Lyalla, and the dark haired man brightened. "Spitfire!" Jaime set her down and Lyalla dashed to her father, shrieking with laughter as he lifted her high and around before tucking her against his chest. He grinned down at her with bright blue eyes. "What has you up at this ridiculous hour?"

"I don't have lessons until nine, and I wanted to learn to fight like you." Lyalla said. She knew her father - so long as Lyalla wanted to be like him, her father would let her do almost _anything_. "The Septa and Maester say I'm doing well in my normal lessons, and I'm wearing breeches and tunic instead of a dress, so please, please, _please_?"

She looked up at him with a pleading expression, even widening her eyes for added impact. Lyalla studiously ignored the muffled snickers from Uncle Jaime and the sigh from Lord Arryn.

Her father grinned. "Of course, Spitfire! Jon and I can finish up later when you're at your lessons."

Lord Arryn looked reluctantly amused. "Of course, Robert."

Lyalla brightened and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. She pressed a clumsy kiss to his cheek. "I love you, Father."

Her father melted, hugging her tight and rubbing his beard against her cheek. Lyalla shrieked with laughter as it scratched against her skin. "I love you too, Spitfire."

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 **As always, reviews are welcome.**


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